Beverly A. Tift

Morning Song

Summer. Early morning filters through the bedroom curtains . . . Smell of sunlight, birdcalls, and my quick-silvered flight out the window and down the maple tree. Crabapples, mulberries filched from drooping branches and clenched in a purple fist, the neighbors' marigolds, daisies, snapdragons that over-frolicked through their backyard fences. I peer between the same wooden slats: "Oh look! The grass, the grass is so green!"

even now . . .
honeysuckle
on my tongue